do that, but he did like it. Blood spurted from her nose. She lay still a moment, stunned, but then she started fighting again and clawing at his face with her long red nails. To his shock, she was pretty strong in her terror and somehow managed to pull off his mask.
âYou? What are you doing? Stop right now and get off me! Why are you doing this to me? Why? Stop it!â She kept yelling the same things over and over, sobbing now, squirming around under him and getting him all excited. He loved it, loved her fear and disappointment, and the way she ended up begging him to stop.
But now he was in a conundrum, to be sure. She was spitting mad, working herself into a full-fledged rage, still trying to scratch his eyes out, really, truly furious that it was him doing this to her. He couldnât let her tell on him, or heâd lose his scholarship. He just couldnât do that. His parents didnât have the money to send him where he wanted to go. He didnât have a choice now, and he had always wanted to kill somebody, now hadnât he? He wanted to see the light gradually go out of her eyes like it did in the movies.
So he got his knees over her arms and held them down. He put one hand around her neck and he put the point of the knife against her throat. Betsy lay very still then, her eyes wide and afraid, so he put down the knife and pressed both thumbs on her windpipe. That stopped all the yelling, and it got real quiet real quick, except for her gasping and the sound of her heels beating against the floor.
While she suffocated, he got to thinking about all the good times theyâd had, at the school dances, and how pretty sheâd looked in that short pink formal dress at last yearâs prom and how sheâd helped him cheat his way to a ninety-six on his last math test. She wasnât so bad; maybe he ought to kill somebody else the first time. So he let up, and then she tried to claw his face and called him some real bad names. Then he got so angry that he grabbed the knife and just thrust it down into the side of her throat. He mustâve hit an artery because blood spurted out everywhere, all over him and the wall and the rug. He scrambled away from her and stood up, but within minutes, she was dead. He had killed her, when he hadnât really planned to, and he hadnât gotten to take her virginity, either, damn it.
Then he ran, outside and through the woods. He stopped at the edge of a little pond and washed himself clean of the blood on his hands and face. But it was all over his clothes so he pulled them off until he wore only gym shorts and a T-shirt. Trembling with fear and excitement and sexual gratification, he put the bloody clothes in a Wal-Mart plastic bag and pitched it into a Dumpster behind a garage. Then he went home, went straight to bed, and lay there reliving the whole thing, over and over, and every time he got more and more aroused. Oh, yeah, killing was fun. Killing was his thing, all right. Maybe he ought to be an assassin or a secret agent. Hone his kills, like James Bond. Kill his victims for money or patriotism. Yeah, that would be his perfect profession, a secret job where he could earn lots of money. He lay awake a long time, wondering how he could make it work, because thatâs what he was going to do with his life. Scare people, then kill them and watch them die. God, he was so excited that he could barely catch his breath.
Chapter Four
Fortunately, Madonna Christienâs home address was not hard to find. In fact, it wasnât all that far from the cozy mansion that Claire shared with Black in the French Quarter. There were several apartment buildings on Carondelet Street, but the one they sought sat near the intersection of Carondelet and Gravier with a narrow alley running behind it. The tarmac was in disrepair, grass struggling up between cracks and potholes here and there, but most buildings lining the back alley were in fairly good
âYou? What are you doing? Stop right now and get off me! Why are you doing this to me? Why? Stop it!â She kept yelling the same things over and over, sobbing now, squirming around under him and getting him all excited. He loved it, loved her fear and disappointment, and the way she ended up begging him to stop.
But now he was in a conundrum, to be sure. She was spitting mad, working herself into a full-fledged rage, still trying to scratch his eyes out, really, truly furious that it was him doing this to her. He couldnât let her tell on him, or heâd lose his scholarship. He just couldnât do that. His parents didnât have the money to send him where he wanted to go. He didnât have a choice now, and he had always wanted to kill somebody, now hadnât he? He wanted to see the light gradually go out of her eyes like it did in the movies.
So he got his knees over her arms and held them down. He put one hand around her neck and he put the point of the knife against her throat. Betsy lay very still then, her eyes wide and afraid, so he put down the knife and pressed both thumbs on her windpipe. That stopped all the yelling, and it got real quiet real quick, except for her gasping and the sound of her heels beating against the floor.
While she suffocated, he got to thinking about all the good times theyâd had, at the school dances, and how pretty sheâd looked in that short pink formal dress at last yearâs prom and how sheâd helped him cheat his way to a ninety-six on his last math test. She wasnât so bad; maybe he ought to kill somebody else the first time. So he let up, and then she tried to claw his face and called him some real bad names. Then he got so angry that he grabbed the knife and just thrust it down into the side of her throat. He mustâve hit an artery because blood spurted out everywhere, all over him and the wall and the rug. He scrambled away from her and stood up, but within minutes, she was dead. He had killed her, when he hadnât really planned to, and he hadnât gotten to take her virginity, either, damn it.
Then he ran, outside and through the woods. He stopped at the edge of a little pond and washed himself clean of the blood on his hands and face. But it was all over his clothes so he pulled them off until he wore only gym shorts and a T-shirt. Trembling with fear and excitement and sexual gratification, he put the bloody clothes in a Wal-Mart plastic bag and pitched it into a Dumpster behind a garage. Then he went home, went straight to bed, and lay there reliving the whole thing, over and over, and every time he got more and more aroused. Oh, yeah, killing was fun. Killing was his thing, all right. Maybe he ought to be an assassin or a secret agent. Hone his kills, like James Bond. Kill his victims for money or patriotism. Yeah, that would be his perfect profession, a secret job where he could earn lots of money. He lay awake a long time, wondering how he could make it work, because thatâs what he was going to do with his life. Scare people, then kill them and watch them die. God, he was so excited that he could barely catch his breath.
Chapter Four
Fortunately, Madonna Christienâs home address was not hard to find. In fact, it wasnât all that far from the cozy mansion that Claire shared with Black in the French Quarter. There were several apartment buildings on Carondelet Street, but the one they sought sat near the intersection of Carondelet and Gravier with a narrow alley running behind it. The tarmac was in disrepair, grass struggling up between cracks and potholes here and there, but most buildings lining the back alley were in fairly good
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